


A Hole in the Middle Where the Lightning Went Through

by perfectlystill



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: -ish?, Angst, Co-Parenting, Complicated Relationships, Divorce, F/M, Flashbacks, POV Outsider, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25055329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: “There’s nothing to fix.” Betty blots her fingertips underneath her eyes as though stopping tears. “I’ll let you process, or not process, whatever you want. I’ll be back in a few hours.”She stands and pushes her chair in, movements heavy and sluggish. There’s an empty space, and then she’s tidied it up. The kitchen is neat, everything put away and wiped clean. Jughead stares at nothing. Betty’s keys rattle as she gets them off the hook, and he turns to see her standing in the doorway to the garage. “Where are you going?”Betty shrugs one shoulder, mouth pressed flat. “Nowhere.”Betty and Jughead marry, have a son, and then divorce. Enter Archie.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Betty Cooper
Comments: 38
Kudos: 85





	A Hole in the Middle Where the Lightning Went Through

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of drinking as an unhealthy coping mechanism, some references to weight issues, the same argument three (or four?) times, and gauche metaphors (it's Jughead's POV, so). Enjoy!
> 
> Title from The National's "Wake Up Your Saints," or "Anyone's Ghost." Take your pick!

The sun still arches high across the sky, the dishwasher rumbles, the sound of rushing water filling the otherwise quiet house. Ryan’s spending the night with Betty’s mom and Jughead’s dad -- it’s weird, but normal, so neither he nor Betty spend too much time thinking about it.

Jughead knows he and Betty need quality time together, just the two of them, but when he finds her at the kitchen table, fingers laced together and resting over her book, a sense of eerie unease washes over him. 

“Hey,” he says, but the word comes out like a question.

“Hi.” She swallows, and when Betty blinks, Jughead spots the pain behind her eyes. She gestures toward his chair, the one he sits in whenever he, Betty and Ryan eat dinner together. “Can we talk?”

Jughead nods, stomach clenching as he takes his seat. “Is Ryan okay?”

“He’s fine. My mom picked him up an hour ago.” She tries to smile, but it sticks at the corners, tight and unnatural. “He was really excited to see her.”

“She’s a surprisingly good grandmother.”

Betty’s eyes cut sideways.

Jughead can never tell where she’ll fall when it comes to Alice, from wanting him to validate her frustrations, to defensiveness on her mother’s behalf. It’s a minefield he walks to middling success. “She’s dropping him off tomorrow?”

“Yeah. She’ll probably try to keep him as long as possible.”

He nods. Alice has always been greedy with her grandson. 

Betty exhales, shoulders loosening. She rubs her thumb across the edge of her hand and looks at the table between them. 

“I’m not happy,” she starts. She lifts her gaze to meet his, and Jughead’s stomach clenches. “I want a divorce.”

It bowls him over. Jughead feels his next breath, a sharp, physical sensation, heart pounding against his rib cage, coming up for air a beat too late. 

He knew Betty wasn’t as happy as she used to be. She’s gotten more and more passive-aggressive every time he rushed off to follow a new lead, the judgmental hum in her voice when he incorporated his experiences working a case into a new piece of writing. All of her praise of his drafts rote. Her brief glances at pages of work accompanied by a distracted, halfhearted, “It’s really good.” It hurt. Jughead tried not to take it personally. Betty’s worked hard to find a balance between profiling and writing. 

She used to love writing, and she still does, reawakening that part of herself at Yale, except instead of investigative journalism, instead of serious reflections on the nature of humanity and society, Betty jots down breezy fiction, beach reads, chick lit. 

Betty had said, “I can’t profile criminals 40 hours a week and then write about them. It’s too much. Aren’t you tired of everything being seedy and dark all the time?”

They haven’t had sex in a month, and it’s been even longer since they’ve had good sex. Jughead can’t even remember the last time he felt connected to her, the last time they really laughed together, the last time they were in the same place more than just physically. 

And yet he’s surprised. 

“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“I’ve thought about it a lot. I’m sorry, but I’ve made up my mind,” Betty says.

“And you didn’t think to discuss it with me first?” Jughead’s voice gets louder, anger webbing itself around the hurt he feels and forming a protective layer. 

Betty blinks away the wetness gathering at the edges of her eyes. “I tried. You never listened.” 

“Bullshit.”

“You cut our anniversary dinner short because you got a tip about money laundering in Midvale.”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t want to come with.”

“That’s my point, Jughead. You’re always bothering the police and my colleagues and trying to solve crimes. It’s not your job.”

“I write crime fiction,” he counters. 

“I know,” she says, bitter and harsh.

“What do you want me to do? Stop researching? You won’t divorce me if I stop helping with murder investigations?”

“Inserting yourself into cases isn’t exactly helpful.” 

Betty brushes off what initially connected them and transformed them into something other than Archie’s two best friends. Investigating and discovering the truth when law enforcement wouldn’t or couldn’t helped forge a bond all their own. Jughead thought it was ironclad. 

“I can cut back,” he offers. He doesn’t believe it, but he’ll try. “If that’s what you want. I’ll commit to a weekly date night.”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do, Betty?” he asks, desperation clawing up his throat. 

“Nothing. It’s over.”

“But I love you,” Jughead says. He reaches for her, but she pulls away. “I love you so much. I’ll do anything.”

Her bottom lip trembles and she looks out the window. “I’m sorry.”

“I can fix it.”

She sniffles, and his heart aches for her despite the remnants of anger threatening to overtake his attempts at begging and bargaining. If Betty’s sad, he thinks, she doesn’t really want to leave him.

When she looks at him again, the tears are back in her eyes. “There’s nothing left to fix.”

“Why?”

It doesn’t make sense. 

Betty doesn’t give up. Not ever. Her fear of failure runs a mile wide, and Jughead cannot imagine her allowing their marriage to become another statistic without even attempting to save it. 

She blinks and a tear rolls down her cheek. “We want different things.”

“I want you, Betty. I want our family.”

“We’ll still be a family.”

“Not like we are now,” he counters. 

“We’ll figure it out. And it’ll be better in the long run. If we’re both happy, that’ll be better for Ryan.”

“I won’t be happy,” he argues. “I’ll be miserable without you.”

“I’m not responsible for your happiness.”

“But I’m responsible for your misery?”

She sighs, face contorting in frustration. Her eyes turn dark and hard, and Jughead knows there’s a wall between them laid with brick. “You keep twisting my words.”

“You asked our parents to watch him, didn’t you? You’ve been planning to leave me for two weeks.” Jughead swallows, and it feels like taking a pill dry. A new sense of betrayal crashes against his lungs. “How long have you known you were going to do this?”

She wipes at her eyes, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“How long have you been lying to me?” he asks, insistent. 

“Jughead.” His name is a wet whisper of a thing. 

“How long?”

“I didn’t make this decision lightly. We haven’t been happy for over a year, and I’ve been wrestling with this for months. I don’t want to hurt you, but I know this is the right thing to do.”

Taking it in, Jughead looks at her wide, watery eyes, smudged mascara underneath her bottom lashes. The determined set of her mouth, shoulders back and squared, ready for a fight he wants to give her. 

He wants to yell, wants to make her sob and apologize -- take the begging to a new low -- wants her minimal mascara running down her cheeks in rivulets, wants her hunched over, small and broken. He feels small and broken, angry. 

Jughead wants to know the exact day and time she decided she didn’t love him anymore, didn’t love him enough to be happy, enough to be honest, enough to try. He wants to know what was the truth and what was a lie.

He repeats her words in his head, and his brain latches on: “A year?”

“I’m different, Jug. It’s me,” she says, soft and soothing. 

“Oh, so it’s not me you’re divorcing? It’s you?”

She exhales so slowly that Jughead knows she won’t bite the bait. “I know this is a lot to take in. We can discuss it later once you’ve processed it.”

“I don’t need to process shit. You don’t love me anymore. I get it.”

“I love you,” she says. “But you bring your work home with you.”

“You used to love working cases with me. You can’t hold that against me now.”

“I’m not blaming you, but 40 hours a week is enough for me. I hate going to sleep alone, and it’s even worse when you’re here and I still feel alone.”

“We can work on it,” he urges, a broken record, unsure what will convince her to stay. “We can fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix.” Betty blots her fingertips underneath her eyes as though stopping tears. “I’ll let you process, or not process, whatever you want. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

She stands and pushes her chair in, movements heavy and sluggish. There’s an empty space, and then she’s tidied it up. The kitchen is neat, everything put away and wiped clean. Jughead stares at nothing. Betty’s keys rattle as she gets them off the hook, and he turns to see her standing in the doorway to the garage. “Where are you going?”

Betty shrugs one shoulder, mouth pressed flat. “Nowhere.”

He wants to ask specifics. Is she going to Pop’s for a milkshake? Is she heading back to the office? Is she going to Kevin’s?

It’s an easier question than the ones already asked: how, when and why. It’s easier to ask if she’ll be back before he’s asleep (she won't be back after, regardless of her plans. Jughead knows he won’t be able to sleep without more clarification), if she already has a lawyer, if one of them is moving out. 

Jughead knows Betty won’t answer. The secrets started a year ago, whether she told them to anyone else or if they were just seeds sprouting into weeds, destroying everything they’ve built over a decade in less than twelve months. It’s futile. 

He lets her leave.

Betty returns home a quarter after nine. 

She has a lawyer. She thinks they should sell the house because neither of them can afford it by themselves. If only one of them moves out, they won’t have money to rent a place and pay for their home. She has ideas about a custody arrangement. 

She comes home, unlocks a desk drawer, and pulls out a binder with documents and plans, color-coded and tabbed. Betty has a plan for tearing their marriage and love in half, clinical and cold despite the sympathy in her eyes. 

Jughead flips through the pages, reading but retaining nothing. The hurt manifests physically, stomach knotted in a way that makes it hard to breathe. His chest hurts and his head swims with the beers he drank while she was gone, stomach empty besides the alcohol. Betty eyes the array on the kitchen table but ignores it.

She sleeps in the guest bedroom, and Jughead sleeps on his side of their bed. Or, he tries. He stares at the ceiling, flashing through all the good memories: the early morning sun shining through her childhood bedroom as she slept in his arms, hair turning golden, peaceful and happy; the smile on her face on their wedding day, bright, joyful tears wetting her eyes; her soft hands on his face after she told him she was pregnant, kissing her senseless and realizing he impossibly loved her more and more every new day. 

It’s a shock, realizing he never stopped. Even when they fought, he loved her, steady and solid, an upward curving graph. His love for her is a living, breathing thing deep in his bones. But for Betty it started to decay, rotting and dying until he became something she wanted to surgically remove from her life, drafting a plan for a clean incision before he even knew they were sick.

The bell above Pop’s rings as Ryan pushes the door open. Jughead follows, gently placing a hand on the glass. Ryan’s an expert door opener now, but he’s excited about picking up dinner and Jughead doesn’t want a face full of door.

Clambering onto a stool by the counter, Ryan greets Pop. “I buyed dinner,” he says. 

“Jones is it?” Pop asks. 

“Ryan,” he says, clarification more than correction, having learned to recognize and accept his full name. 

Jughead smiles, pulling his wallet out and handing his card to Ryan to give Pop. 

Betty suggested they start implementing separate parental time. This weekend is Jughead’s. 

She makes herself scarce, just like he does when it’s her time with their son. It’s hard for Jughead to find somewhere to spend his days, throwing himself into work in a way that validates Betty’s complaints. When he fears he’s making her argument for her, he locks himself in their bedroom watching old movies on Criterion and reading long, translated novels. 

He doesn’t ask where Betty goes, but when he picks Ryan up from daycare and brings him home, she’s never around. He heard her sneaking into the guest room after midnight one Friday, but he didn’t ask. Occasionally her mom posts photos, statuses about never being too old for mother-daughter dates, so he figures she rotates between Alice and her friends. 

It’s hard to imagine Betty easily living her life without him, but Jughead’s adjusting to the idea, even if he still hopes she changes her mind. 

“Mommy?” Ryan says, head turned left toward the booths. 

Jughead follows his pointer finger.

Betty has a half-drunken strawberry milkshake in front of her. A plate of fries sits in the middle of the table in a way that suggests it’s been shared. She bites at the corner of her mouth and ducks her head, smile spreading. A lightness surrounds her, and it pinches at Jughead’s ribs.

It tightens, sharpens, twists when he realizes there’s only one person sitting across from her.

 _Archie_. 

Jughead knows, inherently, that this isn’t a friendly dinner. 

It could be. 

But Betty tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and nods, eyes bright, resting her chin in her palm. Jughead sees the teenage girl smitten with her best friend plain as day. The pain in his ribs stings at his back. 

“We dinner together?” Ryan asks, eyes big and wide like Betty’s, hopeful. 

“No,” Jughead manages, voice sticking. “Mom’s busy.”

“Why?” Ryan’s brow furrows and he frowns.

He asked a lot of questions when they first sat him down and told him they were separating. Where would he live? Where would he go to school? Do they still love him? But it was the _Why?_ that was hardest to answer. Jughead didn’t have a reason, and Betty’s felt just as shallow as the variety of children's books about divorce she bought to read to Ryan. 

He understands more now, watching Betty miss her straw before wrapping her mouth around it. He has a reason that feels more tangible than irreconcilable differences, a spiteful, blame-filled reason he can’t share with their son. 

“It’s our special day,” he says. “Boys only.”

Ryan blinks at him before nodding, accepting the answer. 

Pop brings their order, and Jughead lets Ryan carry a bag out to the car, sneaking glances at his wife and her best friend, looking for clues to confirm what his gut screams. . 

He tries not to stay awake, tries not to wait up to see if and when Betty comes home. 

He falls asleep after two, and when he checks the guest bedroom at dawn the next morning, the bed is still made and not slept in.

Archie brings Betty to the arcade.

Jughead is ten, and girls have cooties. 

“Not Betty. She’s the best,” Archie says, counting the game tokens on their table while Betty and his dad buy slushies. 

“Even Betty.” Jughead rolls his eyes, leaning forward on his elbows to watch Archie slide the coins in three different directions. 

“She’s my best friend.”

“ _I’m_ your best friend.”

“You can have two best friends.”

Jughead groans. “No, you can’t. Best means number one, and someone has to be number two. I bet Betty doesn’t even like Yu-Gi-Oh.”

Archie huffs, frustrated that he’s lost track, pushing the tokens back into one pile. “She’s already here, Jug. I promise you’ll like her.”

“I don’t like anyone.”

“Betty isn’t just anyone,” Archie says, certain. 

They don’t have an even number of tokens, so Archie takes the pile with one less. Betty beats them both at DDR, and Archie pulls his tickets with hers to buy a giant, orange stuffed lobster. Jughead buys a pack of playing cards, saving the rest of his tickets for the stash he keeps at home.

“What are you saving for?” Betty asks. 

Jughead bristles, ignoring her. 

“He doesn’t know yet,” Archie provides. “He says he’ll feel when it’s right.”

Betty’s mouth twists. “Oh.”

A beat.

“Why didn’t you bring your other tickets? What if you found the right thing and then didn’t have enough tickets because you left the rest at home?” she asks. 

“Today wasn’t the day,” Jughead says. 

“How did you know?”

“I just did,” he snaps. 

Betty wrinkles her nose, mouth pinching down. “Sorry.”

Archie grabs her hand and squeezes, apology in the tilt of his head as he asks how her flute lessons are going. 

When Jughead falls back, steps in stride with Mr. Andrews, Archie and Betty don’t seem to notice.

Betty sneaks back home Sunday night two hours after Ryan’s bedtime. Jughead’s writing at the kitchen table, cup of decaf coffee next to him. 

She hangs her car keys on the hook, slips off her shoes, and grabs a glass of water. 

Jughead eyes her, trying to see if there’s a physical difference he missed, but she looks the same as always. The top button of her white shirt undone, ponytail hanging low at the base of her neck, jeans meticulously cuffed at her ankles. 

“My mom said we can drop Ryan off at her place before our appointment with the lawyers,” she says. 

Jughead nods, clearing his throat. “How’s Archie?”

Betty stiffens. “Are you spying on me?”

“No.” He pushes back from the table and stands. Her eyes narrow and her mouth slants, and it’s enough confirmation for Jughead. “Picked up dinner from Pop’s on Friday. Ryan and I saw you there.”

Exhaling, she rolls her neck. “He’s fine.”

“I didn’t know you two were talking,” Jughead says, shutting his laptop. 

“We’re friends.”

“Didn’t know that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Not like that.”

After everything blew up at the end of senior year, he forgave her. He took her back. He worked hard to rebuild the trust she blew to smithereens, the insecurity he had smothered to protect their relationship given new life by Betty’s actions. The validation was nothing compared to the crushing feeling pressing against his lungs. It haunted Jughead. She wouldn’t answer a text for an hour, and his mind would write entire narratives imagining who she was with, who she was texting instead. They worked at it. Together. 

There was an unspoken agreement of transparency where Archie was concerned. He and Betty were never meant to be alone together. Jughead wouldn’t present an ultimatum, because even if she chose him, it would be a losing choice. But they both knew the parameters. The friendship between Betty and Archie had to fundamentally alter for her and Jughead to fix what she broke. 

And it had. 

He thought it had. 

“I forgave you for cheating on me, and now you’re throwing it in my face?” he asks, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. 

“You don’t get to do that,” she says, setting her glass on the counter. “You don’t get to use something that happened ten years ago to justify being an asshole to me right now.”

Jughead shakes his head, letting out a wry, disbelieving sigh. “ _I’m_ the asshole? You’re divorcing me and not even three months later you’re cozying up to Archie. You’re acting like I have no reason to be suspicious.”

“It’s not his fault we didn’t work out.”

“Oh, come on, Betty. He’s been back from the Navy for what? Two years? Were you just waiting until it wouldn’t seem like you left me the second he got back?”

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she spits, eyes narrow. “You create these conspiracy theories out of nothing and expect me to just go along with them.”

“Conspiracy theories?” Jughead scoffs, anger bubbling over.

“Yes, conspiracy theories. I didn’t realize you were still so insecure about Archie when I haven’t even been able to see him for more than an hour with your supervision.”

Heat starts in his chest, traveling up his neck and pooling in his face. “I’m sorry the consequences of you cheating on me with the one person I always thought you’d leave me for messed up your life.” 

“You’re insufferable.” Betty’s hands curl into fists by her sides.

They’re not yelling. Jughead’s acutely aware their son is asleep upstairs, and he knows Betty is, too. He thinks if Ryan is the only thing keeping them from shouting, maybe their marriage really is over.

Betty’s tense, vibrating like she could snap in half, and Jughead wants to hurt her. He wants to destroy her the same way seeing her at Pop’s with Archie destroyed him. He had to push it away for their son, couldn’t go over and tell them both how he really feels, but he can tell Betty now. 

He’s livid, and he’s done burying the feeling in an ill-conceived attempt to change her mind. She’s filed the petition.They both have lawyers. There’s a mediation date set for next month.

It’s over. 

_Fuck_. 

It’s really over. 

“Being married to you hasn’t been a walk in the park, either,” he says. “You always burn the rice, and you force me to watch the most mind-numbing movies, and your massages aren’t sexy, they’re painful.”

“You’re an asshole.” Her eyes are wet, but she blinks it away. “I’ve never intentionally tried to hurt you.”

“But you did! You are!” 

“Well, I’m sorry.”

He swallows. “How long have you and Archie been meeting?”

Betty sniffles, looking away, and Jughead’s stomach drops. 

Uncurling her fists, she wraps her arms around herself. “We’ve been getting lunch sometimes.”

Jughead’s jaw clicks. “How long, Betty?”

“It started six months after he moved back.”

“Fuck.”

“I wanted to tell you,” she rushes, dropping her arms and taking a step forward, palms open and up. Her scars have faded to almost nothing. “But I didn’t want you to worry. And then my mom and Marcy said I shouldn’t, because you might use it against me with Ryan.”

Jughead’s eyes widen. A new pain ripping through his chest. “You think I’d try to make him hate you?”

“No.” Betty shakes her head. “They said it might make custody more complicated.”

“I wouldn’t take Ryan away from you,” he says, shocked.

“I know that.”

Scoffing, he scrubs his hands down his face. “Apparently not.”

Betty presses her palm to her forehead and exhales. When she catches his eyes, she’s the one begging. “Can you really blame me? When you saw Archie and I getting dinner, you assumed the worst.”

“Hiding it doesn’t make it seem innocent,” he counters, eyes tracking across her splotchy face. “Do you love him?”

Her eyebrows wrinkle and her mouth tightens into a frown. Jughead counts the never-ending beats of her pause. 

“Of course I love him. He’s still my best friend.”

She looks down, wringing her hands. Her left ring finger is bare, has been ever since they told Ryan. 

It ripples through him, a slow, aching realization. Not a new one, but an old one that itched at the back of his skull for years, never fully going away. The way he’d ask to look something up on her phone and then scroll through her messages to see if she’d been talking to Archie, the fear of bringing him up in conversation in case it sparked a fight, hoping ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ would work for them, how he fucked her the night of Archie’s welcome home dinner, trying to prove something more than trying to love her. 

“That’s not what I meant, Betty. You know that.”

Her eyelashes flutter and she glances up at him. 

“We’re getting divorced. You owe me the truth.”

“I started to resent you for it. And then I felt guilty for being upset with you when it was my fault.” Betty presses her mouth into a thin line. “For a long time it was okay. I knew I made the right choice. I loved you so much, and whatever I was missing didn’t matter. 

“But I changed. I second-guessed investigating for years, Jug. And then I couldn’t bring myself to investigate with you at all. I felt guilty about that, too. We’ve been growing in different directions for so long. I knew it was over, but I didn’t want to admit it. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“And Archie?” Jughead asks, bracing himself for impact

“I missed him.” She blinks, and a tear falls down her cheek.

“That’s not all it is, though, is it?” 

“We haven’t done anything,” Betty whispers, voice hoarse. She wipes her tears away. “Nothing’s happened.”

He watches Betty’s shaky inhale, the rapid blinking as she tries to curb her emotions. She tucks her lips in, attempting to stop the trembling that threatens to take over her entire body. 

“That’s not true,” Jughead says. 

Betty’s jaw clenches. “I guess not.”

Jughead slouches against the counter. His head pulses and his bones ache. His eyes feel puffy but he hasn’t cried yet, not like Betty. He’s exhausted, but an almost calming sense of relief takes hold, too. Having an insecurity confirmed -- reconfirmed -- scars, but he doesn’t feel crazy or paranoid anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” Betty says. “But you have to know that’s not why this is happening. I’m not leaving you for him.”

Jughead doesn’t believe that. Maybe it’s not the only reason, but he stopped believing in coincidences long ago. “Where’d you sleep this weekend?”

She reels back, body clenching before she seems to deliberately relax. “My mom’s guest bedroom.”

“Okay.”

Betty shakes her head as though disappointed he even asked. She gulps down half her water before pouring the rest into the sink. The dishwater rattles as she places the cup inside and inspects, deciding whether she should run it or not. It reminds Jughead of when they first moved in together, making a small home out of her childhood bedroom, how novel and revelatory to smell her everywhere, to see her things intermixed with his own. The apartment they lived in after graduating college, combining their adult lives in a way that bound them together anew. Buying this house, arguing over decorations just to watch Betty get riled up before Jughead admitted she was right. 

“I’m going to bed,” she says. “Goodnight.”

“Betty?” he asks, voice a worn whisper. 

“Yeah?” 

He wants to ask her not to do whatever it is she’s going to do with Archie. He wants to say: anyone else but him. 

He can’t. 

“Goodnight.”

The corner of her mouth tucks itself into a half-smile. She really is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He loves her, still. He thinks he’s cursed to love her always. 

And then she disappears into the dark, up the stairs, and further away than should be possible underneath the same roof.

Jughead and Betty find apartments a few blocks from each other, their house has sold, and they have to be out in a week. 

As they pack, their home emptying with every box through the door, the loss makes itself more prominently known. Betty took the coffee table, her dresser, the lamp that used to sit in Jughead’s study. The correlating hole in his body expands with the deconstruction of their home, with the wedding picture she asks to take with her, removing it from its frame and placing it in a photo album.

The searing pain has lessened to a constant throbbing. Jughead’s been told it’ll settle, it’ll come and go, and it’ll get easier over time. He’ll learn to live with it. But he doesn’t know if that correlates with ease. He imagines it’ll be like a constant, physical pain that feels debilitating until it’s been dealt with for years, forced to go about his life like the people without it. 

Betty fastidiously splits the silverware, and Jughead works on dividing plates, glancing up at her every so often. Exposure therapy.

“I think Ryan should meet Archie,” she says, holding up two serving spoons. 

The plate in Jughead’s hand crashes to the floor like they’re living in a goddamn soap opera. 

“Shit, are you okay?” Betty asks, eyes wide like a cartoon as she scurries across the kitchen for the broom.

He laughs, a hollow, dead sound that rings in his ears. Stepping away from the ceramic pieces, Jughead rubs at the nap of his neck. The air is thick. Every time Betty pulls the rug from beneath him, it feels like a surgical cut without anesthesia, precision personally and purposefully calculated to increase the pain. 

Betty scoops the plate onto the dustpan, and Jughead can’t move, can’t help.

“This can be one of mine,” she offers. 

“So, you and Archie…”

She looks down, tapping the back of the dustpan as the pieces fall into the garbage. “We’ve discussed buying a place.”

It’s an uppercut to the gut, sharp and fast, vibrating up his body and knocking him out.

“You’re fucking unbelievble,” he says, nothing masking his bitterness. 

“I know it seems fast. But I can’t remember a time when I didn’t--” she cuts herself off, and the unfinished sentence hangs between them.

“Didn’t what?” Jughead asks. 

“We just know, okay?” She pushes the cabinet closed with her knee, attaching the dustpan to the broom handle. 

“You can say it. You can’t remember a time when you didn’t love him? Is that it?”

She sighs, knuckles going white around the handle. “Don’t do this.”

“Three months ago you insisted that you and Archie were just friends,” he counters.

She slams the closet door shut, flinching. “I didn’t know you wanted regular updates.”

“I didn’t realize Archie was going to be my son’s new step-father before we even signed the papers.”

Her jaw ticks, and she shifts her weight, hands on her hips. “Did you ever think maybe this whole thing is a self-fulfilling prophecy you created?”

“I didn’t push you into Archie’s arms, Betty. You ran there on your own. Don’t you fucking dare turn this around on me when I want to be married to you.”

“I cannot fathom why if you think I’ve been in love with your best friend this entire time.”

“Fuck if I know!”

He hates her. He hates Archie. He hates himself. She’s right about that, and he hates it, too. Because he doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. It’s inevitable, it’s been inevitable since the first time he kissed her. He knew it then, and he knew when he saw them at Pop’s, and yet it never stops feeling like a fresh, stinging slap to the face. 

Betty exhales, rolling her shoulders back. “We can wait, if that would be better for you.”

“Wait?” he asks. 

“I can keep my apartment. I can hold off on introducing Ryan to Archie. Just because we’re ready, I know it doesn’t mean you are.” Her eyes are still guarded, but her voice has gone soft, understanding.

The anger brightens in Jughead’s blood. Betty and Archie are a _we_ now, and she talked to him about this first, her primary confidant, her partner. The feeling of being replaced scrapes like nails on a chalkboard. 

“I don’t want your pity,” he spits. 

“Our marriage was over for me before it was for you. I’ve already had time to grieve. I get that. I’m trying to honor your process.”

“ _Process_ ,” he repeats, the word dripping in sarcasm. “Stop quoting your lawyer back to me as though she’s a therapist. You have no idea what it’s like, Betty. How could you? You’re leaving me. You’re moving in with Archie of all goddamn people. You’ve made my worst nightmare a reality. For a second time. You have no fucking idea what this feels like.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. It doesn’t help.”

“Sorry,” she mumbles. 

Jughead looks down, cracking his knuckles. “You loved me, though?”

“I did.” She smiles, a sad sliver of a thing. “I do.”

“You love him more?”

She blinks, taking a step back, her guard fastened into place. Her eyelashes are wet, and it feels supremely unfair that she gets to look ethereal and sad when she’s the one who ripped his heart out through his throat. “Don’t ask me that.”

Turning around, Jughead presses the heels of his hands against his eyelids, fighting down the guttural scream that’s been building since they sat in this very kitchen and she told him it was over. 

His answer is gruff, garbled through the rage and the heartbreak set to simmer. “I already know. Just wanted to see if you’d say it.”

Betty remains silent.

They’re at Sweetwater Swimming Hole the summer after sex education. 

Betty’s gaze sneaks over to Archie as he pulls his T-shirt over his head, a flush coloring her cheeks that has nothing to do with the sun or the heat. Archie’s thin, burn peeling on his shoulders from their last excursion, and any bruises cracking his knuckles from playground fights have disappeared as he’s learned self-control.

“Are your parents doing better?” Jughead asks, breaking the awkward tension that hangs around. Maybe Betty feels it, too, but Archie is oblivious. 

“I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s just have fun.” 

Archie splashes into the water, and Jughead fiddles with the fraying hem of his own T-shirt -- black, absorbing the sun’s rays. He pretends to inspect the holes littered along the bottom. 

Betty eyes Archie bobbing in the water and glances at Jughead to make sure he isn’t looking before she wiggles out of her Soffe shorts and tank top. He bends his body further, staring at the cotton between his fingers until his eyes lose focus. 

She hasn’t shredded all her baby fat yet. When they go to Pop’s, she’s stopped ordering a milkshake. Jughead wants to tell her she looks fine, but they’re not close, he’s a boy, and he doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable. 

“Jughead! Get in the water!” Archie calls, paddling back towards the edge and splashing at him. 

“I’m working on my tan,” he says in his most scathing impression of Cheryl.

Archie laughs. “Suit yourself.

He swims over to Betty, wrapping himself around her and dunking them both. When they come up, she’s giggling, high-pitched and girly: “Stop!” Her fingers grip Archie’s arms instead of his sunburned shoulders. She doesn’t push him away.

Jughead orders a black coffee, throwing a dollar into the tip jar before looking around the shop as the barista pours the hot liquid into a mug. 

There’s a free table by the window, the sun streaming through the blinds. It’s a prime spot, but the light pools along the surface, suggesting it might glare against his laptop screen. There’s an armchair close to the door, but he knows from experience it’s too soft, swallowing the person who sits there. 

“Here you go,” the barista says, a customer service smile plastered on her face, genuine nonetheless. 

“Thanks.”

Moving out of the way, his eyes skim the space, skirting over an occupied table. A plate with two forks and the crumbs of a pastry, two mugs, and Betty sitting across from Archie. 

The feeling slams into Jughead, and his eyes skip over them only to double back. 

Betty speaks, leaning forward, face alight. A book held open by her splayed palm. She glances down, reading something from it. Archie is rapt across the table, eyebrows wrinkled, and when Betty finishes, he responds by reaching across the small space, hand brushing against hers as he flips the book toward him, squeezing her fingers.

It’s a small moment, intimate and lived in, and Jughead’s chest aches, hand trembling just enough to spill hot coffee onto his skin. He curses under his breath, moving the mug from his right hand to his left and grabbing the nearest table. One of the legs wobbles, shaking when he sets his coffee down, a ringing in his ears as more liquid splashes over the rim. 

He and Betty never grabbed coffee together. They’d get breakfast at Pop’s, chat about a case or his next novel, work through a mystery, real or fictional, together. It stopped after Ryan was born, but they’d read together, perched on opposite sides of the sofa, Jughead with a literary classic and Betty, more often than not, with a Sophie Kinsella-esque mindless romp. 

They scheduled date nights -- mostly when Alice demanded grandparent time for herself and his dad -- went to Pop’s for dinner, ordered in and watched a movie, had sex on the sofa while _Modern Family_ reruns played in the background. It reminded Jughead of being teenagers, when they didn’t have time or place, when the heady rush of each touch was daring and exciting, even in the beginning when it was hesitant and tender. It was always good, when fumbling and fast, when sensual and slow, when lavish and loving, or kinetic and kinky. It was good, and then one day it wasn’t. 

It strikes Jughead that maybe, for Betty, fucking on their cramped couch wasn’t a nostalgic reminder of being seventeen. Instead, maybe it was lack of romance or effort. 

A miscommunication. 

He blames himself.

But he blames Betty, too. For not speaking up, for checking out, for having coffee with Archie, biting around her smile and listening as he reads a passage back to her.

Ryan bites off the head of the dinosaur, dipping the nugget into ketchup and holding it toward Jughead. “Blood.”

“Tend to the wound,” Jughead advises.

When he and Betty moved into their apartments, their separate time with their son felt different than making themselves scarce in their shared home. A more real fracturing. He wondered if he should relay stuff like this back to her, but he’s decided against it. 

Betty has enough questions when she picks Ryan up or when Jughead drops him off at her apartment. He doesn’t want to encourage her interrogation. The tension between them ebbs and flows; some days he wants to tell her to fuck off, that he’s Ryan’s dad, and he knows what he’s doing just as much as she does. Other days, he wants to prove to her that he’s a good parent.

Ryan licks at the ketchup before taking another bite. “After dinner I ride my bike?”

“Your bike is at your mom’s,” Jughead says, shoulders sagging.

Ryan frowns, an imitation. 

“How about we go to the park?”

“I swing highest!” Ryan throws his arm into the air, half-eaten nugget smooshed between his fingers. 

“Not if I swing higher.”

Ryan wrinkles his nose. “Archie teached me monkey bars.”

“He taught you the monkey bars?” Jughead asks, attempting to sound excited rather than put out. 

“Yes!” Ryan drops his nugget into the ketchup, small red splatters on his T-shirt. “We played superhero.”

“Did you go on an adventure?”

“Yes! We swimmed ‘cross the sand ocean. We flyed ‘cross space!” He juts his arms out sideways, speech beginning to slur as he invests himself in telling the story. “Ranned from monsters. Archie and I saved the princess.”

“You saved the princess?” Jughead leans in. “That’s really cool.”

Ryan leans in too, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mommy pretended to be the princess.”

“She is a princess,” Jughead says.

Ryan’s eyes go wide. “A real princess?”

“She thinks she is.”

“She’s still my mommy?” Ryan asks, eyebrows scrunched together. 

“She’ll always be your mom.”

He nods, pleased, before picking his chicken nugget up again and shoving the rest into his mouth. 

When Ryan swallows, Jughead hands him his napkin to try and wipe himself clean. “Did you celebrate saving the princess?”

“She kissed us.”

Jughead’s jaw ticks.

“Can Archie sleep over?” Ryan asks, red stains on his hands. 

The air leaves the room. 

Jughead lost Betty, but it feels like he’s losing his son, too. With every mention of Archie, he sees himself being replaced. Ryan’s always been his mother’s son, following her lead. 

Jughead’s entire world grows smaller and more restrictive. He wonders if Betty feels free scheduling their son’s time between their apartments, dividing their evenings so their 60/40 arrangement adds up correctly whenever Alice intervenes, discussing activities and how preschool factors in. He’s exhausted and stressed, and every time he feels like he’s reached acceptance, he takes five steps back. 

“Does Archie sleep over a lot?” Jughead asks. 

Ryan nods, finger-painting his plate with swirls of ketchup. “Lots and lots. We play cars and dinosaurs and he helps mommy read me the barn animals.”

“Does he do the sounds?”

“Cows go moooooooo!” 

“They do,” Jughead agrees. 

Rage simmers in his chest. Questions ping-ponging around his head with nowhere to go.

“So Archie can sleep over?” Ryan asks, all wide eyes. “Please?”

Jughead does his best to keep his voice even and calm. “No. He’s sleeping over at your mom’s.”

A fact. He knows without knowing. 

Ryan sighs, wiping his dirty hands on his T-shirt. Jughead hopes it won’t stain. “He always sleeps over with her.”

“Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Ryan pouts. “No.”

Jughead agrees, but he bites down the harsh words, filing them away for a confrontation he’s already planning.

He’ll go to the same park with his son, hoping to replace the memory with Archie. They’ll get milkshakes at Pop’s, and he’ll read _Chicka Chicka Boom Boom_ even though he hates it.

He’ll lie awake in bed, drafting and editing an argument he’s afraid he’ll lose.

Pushing open the door, Ryan runs to his room to find the newest action figure he talked about on their drive to Betty’s apartment. 

Hesitantly, Jughead enters, peeking his head around the frame. 

It’s messier than it usually is when he drops Ryan off: a rumpled blanket half-hanging off the sofa, coasters spread across the same coffee table that used to sit in their living room and take up too much space, a pair of rolled up socks by one of its legs. 

“Hey,” Archie says. 

Jughead turns.

There’s a colander and pan drying in the dish rack, half-empty cups on the counter, specks of dirt on the white tiles he realizes Betty normally cleans before Ryan returns. He’s not the only one trying to impress. 

“Where’s Betty?” Jughead asks. 

“Napping. She has a migraine.”

“Oh.” Jughead grinds his teeth before holding up Ryan’s overnight bag. “Here’s my son’s stuff.”

Archie’s face freezes, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. 

After Jughead found out, he sent a simple _thanks a lot, man_ before blocking Archie’s number. He’s spotted Archie a few times in town, ducking around displays to avoid him despite thinking it should be the other way around. It’s a different sort of betrayal than the one perpetrated by Betty. Less a bro code thing, and a more another nail in the coffin of their friendship. 

Jughead knows he built the coffin. Maybe it happened the summer Archie abandoned him. He gathered the wood, fell for Betty knowing she had fallen for Archie, constructing the oak into something sturdy. Knowing, on some level, that despite spending time with both of them, he’d never broken into their twosome. The first betrayal was his, opening the lid and crawling in. 

It doesn’t make Archie’s current, ongoing betrayal sting any less. 

“Jughead, I--”

“Save it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say.”

Archie nods, but Jughead can see he’s about to open his mouth -- apologize, probably, as though an _I’m sorry_ makes up for practically living with his ex-wife a month after their divorce was finalized. He spends more time with Jughead’s son than Jughead does. That 60% of their custody arrangement going to Betty and, by proxy, Archie. Regret scrapes at Jughead’s insides. He should have argued for 50/50 despite 60/40 seeming to make sense, thinking ahead to when Ryan starts elementary school. 

He’s saved from the meaningless platitudes by Ryan running back to him with his action figure -- probably bought by or with Archie.

Jughead distracts himself from his souring train of thought, squatting down to listen to his son.

Archie’s not the person he wants to have it out with anyway. Jughead watches him fill a glass of water and grab a cold compress to bring Betty, lying in the dark of her room down the hall, unaware of the rage pulsing behind Jughead’s skull. 

He says goodbye to Ryan, ruffling his hair before leaving. Jughead hears Archie ask him about his weekend before he half-sprints to the stairwell. 

He leans against the wall, eyes screwed shut, swallowing down the sharp scream clawing up his throat.

The first day of freshman year. 

Jughead sits at a table in the back corner of the cafeteria, picking at the school-provided lunch on his plastic tray. Sturdy but cheap. He presses his thumb into the bruise on the side of his green apple. He’s not hungry. 

Pushing the tray aside, he grabs a pen and opens a notebook, looking around. Betty and Kevin sit a few tables away, empty spots on either side of them. She catches his eye, smiles, but doesn’t wave him over.

Jughead jots down notes, not a story, not even an idea, but sentence fragments that could turn into something someday. 

“Jughead, come on,” Archie says, nodding toward Betty and Kevin, his own tray in his hands. Instead of the mystery meat splattered onto Jughead’s, Archie has a foil-wrapped cheeseburger. Their fruit cup is the same. 

“Nah. I’m good here.”

“Don’t be antisocial.”

“It’s in my nature.” He tilts his head. “Go. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Concern etches itself into the curve of Archie’s mouth.

Jughead knows Archie will sit across from him if he asks. 

They both catch sight of Betty waving Archie over, eyes wide and mouth forming around his name. She’s probably saying it aloud, but in the noise of the cafeteria they can’t hear it. 

“Last chance,” Archie says. 

“ _Go_.”

Betty slides over and Archie sits next to her. Turning her body toward him, Betty rests her elbow on the table, leaning her cheek against her palm. She listens as Archie talks, and Jughead looks down at his chicken scratch, writing a full, cliched sentence.

The bar is musty, worn, dirt piled in the corners. The lights are dim and warm, everything obscured enough to temper people’s edges. The guys look gruff and masculine, and the women are soft and pretty. Old country-rock sifts through the sound system just loud enough that Jughead feels like he needs to raise his voice. 

His vision swims so he closes his eyes against the curly blonde hair and round cheeks in front of him. She tastes like vodka, cheap lemonade and peanuts when her tongue wraps around his. Jughead can’t remember her name. 

_Betty_. 

She’s not Betty. 

Her hair flows in ringlets instead of soft waves, she’s half a foot too short and rail thin, curves sanded down. Her eyes are brown, deep and dark and almost black in the haze of the bar. She’s pretty, close but not too close; close but not close enough. 

Breaking for air, she presses a palm against Jughead’s chest, flat and forceful. She leans in, whisper-screaming in his ear. Her voice is too high and twangy, jolting Jughead too far out of the Maker’s Mark stupor he drank himself into. 

“My place is less than ten minutes away,” she says. 

“I…”

She cocks her head, pushes back, eyes searching and all wrong. 

“I have to go. I’m sorry.”

Jughead throws up on the pavement, chunks of food splattered against the cracking blacktop. He wipes at his mouth with his forearm, crawls into his car and lies down across the back seat. His eyes are closed, but the world spins, tilts, breaks.

His dad twists his arm, guilting him into Christmas Eve dinner with Alice. 

Well, Alice and Betty and Ryan and Archie. 

It’s Ryan’s voice on the phone that cracks any of Jughead’s remaining resolve, stopping him from backing out. He doesn’t want to sit across from Betty and Archie and break bread. He’s mastered the trade-off (even though trade-off makes Ryan sound like a football or some compromise about household chores rather than their son), a nod in Archie’s direction, a rundown of any important information with Betty, and little lingering or escalation. 

But any prolonged period of time in their vicinity seems like a pressure cooker, waiting and ready to explode.

At first, Jughead attempts not to look at them, engaging his dad in conversation about the Serpents and Riverdale's consistently dropping crime rates. He even inquires about Alice’s souffle recipe. 

It’s not sustainable, though. 

The group isn’t large enough for multiple, small conversations.

“Are you excited for Christmas, Ryan?” Alice asks, knife clinking against the fancy china. 

“Yes, second Christmas!”

Alice tilts her head. “You get a second Christmas?”

“Yes! I already did early Christmas with Mom and Dad. Santa knew to come and he filled my stocking. I got chocolate and candy, but Mom took it away like Halloween. I got a... globe?” he says, looking at Betty for confirmation.

“Yes.”

“It’s really cool. I also got a tent and Legos and the batmobile and a bat and baseballs and boxing gloves because Dad is gonna teach me and Mom how to fight.”

“You’re going to box?” Jughead asks, tone falling between disbelief and disapproving. 

Ryan’s eyes widen, gaze moving from Jughead to Betty and Archie. “Yes?”

“Yeah, honey. If you want, we’ll take lessons together.”

“I dunno.” Turning his head, Ryan glances at Jughead and then back, shifting his body with the movement. 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Betty says, smiling at their son before her eyes bore into Jughead. “Right?”

“Right,” he agrees, the word scraping out of his throat as he scrapes his chair backward. “Betty, Archie?” He nods his head toward the other room. 

Archie says, “Yeah, sure,” and Betty sighs.

Jughead’s shoulders hitch, and he hears Ryan ask, “Is Mom in trouble?”

“Ryan’s been aggressive at preschool,” Betty says, voice low, the steady, march-like tempo she uses while trying to convince someone she knows best. “We want to give him an outlet for his feelings.”

“Aggressive?” Jughead asks. “Maybe he’s aggressive because you’re exposing him to a violent sport.”

Betty crosses her arms over her chest. “This isn’t about boxing. And we all know it.”

“If you don’t want me to teach him, I won’t,” Archie says. 

Jughead exhales. “Thank you.”

“No, Arch, this is ridiculous. He’s having trouble adjusting to all the changes. He’s acting out, and we’ve decided on a way to help him deal with his emotions productively.”

“Punching a bag filled with sand is productive?”

“It teaches hand-eye coordination and relieves stress,” Archie says.

Jughead ignores him. “If you had been able to think about anybody but yourself this year, Betty, maybe he wouldn’t have anger issues. If you hadn’t left me for Archie, forced Ryan to move twice in six months and call someone else ‘Dad,’ he’d be doing just fine.”

“Fuck you,” she spits, shoulder hitting his as she pushes past him.

He hears her stomping up the stairs, Alice calling, “Elizabeth? Is that you? I just had the carpet cleaned!”

“Jughead,” Archie scolds. 

“Save it. You’re not innocent, either.”

“I know,” he admits, moving back. 

It’s enough to shock Jughead into stillness. Betty has never come close to admitting fault, not without prodding, not without making him feel like a villain first, not without excuses for the blame she reluctantly shoulders to end an argument. 

“I’m sorry,” Archie whispers. “We messed up.”

Jughead swallows, nods. “You did.”

“She misses you, you know?”

Shaking his head, Jughead grinds his teeth, backing up until he hits a wall. 

He believes Archie. It’s easy. He wants it to be true, and Archie has never been a liar, much less a good one. “Not enough. Not like she missed you.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Isn’t it?” he shoots back.

Archie’s face freezes, cracks, and his exhale drains the life out of him.

“You get to act like it isn’t because you won.”

Just because they didn’t have control of the outcome, it doesn’t mean Betty didn’t have a choice. Jughead knows it hurts more because he thought he’d won only to have the victory ripped from him, taking his fingernails with it, leaving him raw and bloody. Healing takes a long time, especially when he does his best not to think about it unless he’s poking and prodding at the wound, masochistically hoping it’s infected. 

Archie looks away, shoving his hands into his front pockets. 

“She was right. I don’t care whether or not Ryan boxes. I care that she didn’t tell me he was acting out.”

“She didn’t want to worry you.”

Jughead knows she didn’t want to get blamed for it, either. It’s the reason he didn’t tell Betty about the time Ryan regressed, wetting the bed. 

“Ryan calls you Dad?” Jughead asks. 

“He just started doing it when we went to his preschool’s Thanksgiving pageant. I guess it was easier than explaining it to his friends.” 

Jughead curses the meeting he had with his publisher. It had seemed like a good idea, getting it out of the way so he could spend the long weekend with his son, two extra days gifted to him as Betty and Archie took a trip to Chicago. Turns out it was more of a Trojan horse.

“So you didn’t ask him to?” 

“No.” Archie’s brow wrinkles. “No. I can ask him to stop.”

“I appreciate it, but Betty would throw a fit.” 

Jughead’s been skating on thin ice for months. After he learned Archie had gotten out of his lease and moved into Betty’s apartment, he let it slip to Ryan that Archie “steals things that don’t belong to him,” resulting in Ryan trying to hide his toys. 

Betty’s forehead vein popped, cheeks flushed, words harsh. She had been right. He’s an adult, and their son doesn’t need to carry the burden of their failed marriage. It was a genuine accident, an overflowing of emotion after Ryan unknowingly added a new piece of information Betty had yet to tell Jughead -- nothing monumental, but the little things (and the big things) add up. 

As it turns out, their communication skills? Not great. Betty’s pretty fucking terrible at it. She puts off talking until Ryan lets something slip, until Jughead figures it out. Sometimes he isn’t even sure she plans to tell him anything at all. She shares the necessities of Ryan’s life and nothing about hers, as though they don’t overlap, as though Archie sleeping in her bed every night doesn’t affect Ryan, as though Archie picking him up from daycare is inconsequential. 

“Ryan loves you,” Archie says, confirming that Betty likes Ryan calling Archie Dad. “I’m never going to replace you in his life. Betty doesn’t want me to, either.”

Jughead scoffs. 

“It’s up to you whether I say something to Ryan about it. Betty thinks it should be Ryan’s decision. But I understand if you don’t.”

Ryan’s four going on five, spends more time with Archie than he does with Jughead, probably. That’s not really fair.

None of this is fair.

“I don’t want him to feel like he hurt me,” Jughead says. 

“But it does hurt.”

“Like a motherfucker,” he agrees.

Alice sticks her head around the corner. “Archie? Betty is insisting she leave. She’s saying goodbye to Ryan and doesn’t even want to stay for dessert. I swear she always overreacts or underreacts. No balance.”

“Okay. Yeah. We’ve had a long day...”

“You’re supposed to convince her to stay.”

Archie smiles, placating. “Once Betty makes up her mind it’s hard to change it.”

“We’re still invited over on Sunday?” Alice asks.

“Yes.”

“It’s getting close to Ryan’s bedtime, too,” Jughead adds. 

Whipping her focus to him, she narrows her eyes. “You’re staying for dessert, and I won’t hear anything else about it.”

They follow Alice to the front door. Betty’s already zipping her coat, eyes puffy and red-rimmed. She barely glances at Jughead. Her mouth thins when he whispers a brief apology, but otherwise she doesn’t react, hugging her mom and Ryan, kissing his head and shuffling out the door so quickly she almost slips. 

Ryan tugs on Jughead’s sleeve. “Did you put Mommy in timeout?”

Jughead shakes his head. “No. She’s just tired.”

“It’s not her bedtime.”

“You can go to sleep before your bedtime,” Jughead says.

Ryan frowns, face scrunching up, horrified. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“Not me.”

“You don’t have to,” Jughead agrees.

“Good.” Ryan nods, appeased, before tugging Jughead toward the tree and the still-wrapped presents.

Tuesday evening. Discount night at the fancy theater that still charges too much. Jughead uses the term ‘fancy’ loosely. The theater is generic and corporate, and he feels out of place even looking at the marquee from the parking lot. But it’s the only nearby option since the drive-in closed, so he buys a ticket to whichever movie passes as arthouse to the citizens of Riverdale (read: any movie without a superhero), splurging on a large cherry slushie and popcorn with extra, extra butter. 

As he juggles his food, overpriced box of Swedish Fish tucked beneath his armpit, he spots Betty and Archie standing in the concession line. 

Jughead’s stomach rolls, one familiar swoop, and he ducks his head, hoping to escape any potential small talk. 

“Jughead?” Archie calls.

Dammit. Damn him. 

“Hey guys.” Jughead purses his lips, reluctantly walking over. The cheap cardboard of his slushie cup is already damp against his hand, droplets of condensation forming. 

Betty’s mouth twists, eyes flitting over him and away. Jughead suspects she would have ignored him if Archie hadn’t initiated the conversation. 

“How are you?” Archie asks. It sounds like a polite question volleyed to an acquaintance you’re stuck behind in the grocery checkout, except Archie’s eyes are kind and imploring like he really wants to know and will actually remember Jughead’s answer next week. 

Last weekend, Betty dropped Ryan off and picked him up from Jughead’s apartment, gifting him the opportunity to avoid further home-building in her new house. Every week it seems there’s a new decoration affirming her and Archie’s happy family: a framed picture of them on the bookshelf in the living room, new curtains draping the front windows, seasonal clings haphazardly stuck on the glass by Ryan and Betty, a shoe rack with three almost identical pairs of Converse. 

It’s annoying: Archie’s sincere desire to follow social rules not due to rote politeness, but out of friendship and genuine care. 

Jughead misses him in a way he hadn’t when they only ever spoke irregularly over text or when he and Betty would meet Archie for an hour-long dinner in an attempt to pretend everything was normal. He misses discussions about their lives, Archie’s problems and Jughead’s solutions. He misses laughing about stupid shit they did when they were younger -- but even those memories are tainted, a reminder of Betty, her presence at the batting cages or her absence at the fishing hole. For each memory of playing hide and seek with Archie, of staying up late to watch Nick at Nite during their sleepovers (Archie falling asleep before any show in black and white), he knows Archie has two with Betty; Jughead left out, an afterthought, if that. 

“I’m good. You know, submitting myself to the mind-melting wonders of _Murder Down the Aisle_.”

“Reggie said that was great, actually,” Archie says. 

“His taste leaves a lot to be desired. Almost as much as yours,” Jughead jokes. 

It lands heavy and hollow between them. 

“Yeah,” Archie agrees, chuckling anyway. “We’re seeing the new Amy Schumer thing.”

Jughead grimaces, speaking out the side of his mouth: “Point proven.”

“It was my choice,” Betty cuts in, terse. 

Archie urges the party gathered behind them to cut in front, and Jughead clears his throat. “Where’s Ryan?”

“Oh, he’s with my mom and Brooke,” Archie says. 

“Your mom,” Jughead repeats, another swoop of the stomach, like jumping off a cliff. 

“She’s in town for a few days.”

“Don’t make a big deal out of this,” Betty says. Her neck held high, hands clasped together in front of her. 

“I’m not.”

“Okay.” She bites her bottom lip, looking away. “We don’t want you to miss your film.”

“ _Film_ is rather generous, but I should get going. Wouldn’t want to miss the preview for _Man in Tights 8_.”

“I hope you enjoy it,” Betty adds, a hint of the warmth she used to reserve for him peeking through. 

“And if not, I can eat my feelings.” Jughead holds up his slushie and popcorn, causing the Swedish Fish to crash to the floor. “Shit.”

Betty grabs the box, handing it over. The melting slushy now trapped precariously between his arm and torso. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Her smile taciturn and taut again. 

Jughead looks back. 

It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. He doesn’t possess the self-control required to fight the instinct. His attempts to cultivate it were halted by Betty and Archie sophomore year, by reconnecting him with his father, by forgiveness. He can still do it with anyone else, move on without a second thought, shedding them like a snake sheds old skin. But he’s bound to Betty and Archie. Through Ryan, most concretely. Though Jughead fears there’s something separate tying him to Betty, invisible cuffs that chaff at the skin of his wrists. Cuffs that Betty cannot feel, slipping in and out unnoticed. 

Whatever the reason, Jughead looks back, turning to salt. 

Betty sips on a large soda as Archie hands the pimply, red-faced teenager his credit card. A small popcorn on the counter that Jughead knows doesn't have any butter, and if Archie and Betty are the same as they were when they were younger, there will be a box of Milk Duds for Archie. He’ll share them with Betty, allowing her to eat most of the candy despite her insistence that she doesn’t want any. 

Betty smiles in a way that shines through her whole body, a soft, warm, radiant glow. It doesn’t simply reach her eyes. It changes her posture. Alters her DNA. 

Jughead never received that particular smile as much as Archie did and still does. He can count on two hands the number of times it happened. Her joy transcending, transforming her into the princess she simultaneously wanted to be and resented. 

Archie grabs the Milk Duds (a brief pinch of smugness) and popcorn as Betty holds the plastic cup for him to take a sip, grin growing into a laugh that Jughead can’t hear. Their arms brush when they turn in the opposite direction, walking away, and Jughead resigns himself to a trite, uninspired C-list horror film.

Jughead freezes, hand on the curtain. 

He knew Betty was spending the day with Archie. She’s been overly concerned about him since Mr. Andrews passed away, fretting whenever he doesn’t want her there, asking Jughead if she’s overbearing. 

She is, but he likes it. 

On the days Archie wants to be alone, Betty picks at her fingernails. She pretends to go about her day as normal, but Jughead can see she’s preoccupied, Archie running through her mind the way apps run in the background of her phone, draining her battery. It’s the same as the summer before when she worked on Archie’s case all day and all night. 

Today, however, she didn’t slump back toward their house, sit on the edge of their bed, and run her hand through Jughead’s hair, sad slant of her mouth as she said, “He just wants to sleep.”

Across the way, Betty has Archie wrapped in her arms, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She’s crying, and Jughead can tell Archie is, too, shaking with it. Betty cards one hand through his hair, twisting her head to press a kiss to the side of his. 

Jughead exhales, pulling the curtains shut.

Archie’s father died, and Betty’s his best friend, and she’s in love with Jughead. 

He’s not jealous.

Jughead flips the grilled cheese, butter sputtering. He’s embarrassingly excited about his use of multiple cheeses and ham instead of straight cheddar. He’s always been good at making cheap meals, but after college and moving in with Betty, he never expanded his cooking repertoire beyond sandwiches and pasta.

When Betty asked why Ryan ate McDonalds every day last weekend, he was passive-aggressively shamed into doing better. 

Ryan scampers in, socks slipping against the tile. 

“Slow down, bud. No running in the apartment.”

“I dropped him!” Ryan says, holding out his action figure. It’s some newfangled superhero decked in forestry green. Jughead likes the comics, reads them to censor the pages containing excessive violence. 

Bending down, he takes the plastic person, inspecting. “He looks okay. He’s strong.”

“But I was playing Baby Brother and I dropped him.”

Jughead hands the toy back, and Ryan cradles it in his arms, eyebrows furrowed, frown deep. 

“Accidents happen. He’ll survive.”

“What if I drop my real baby brother or sister?”

Jughead burns his hand against the side of the pan, a hot, throbbing pulse. The crust on his grilled cheese blackens while he runs his palm under lukewarm water, tears collecting in Ryan’s eyes.

When Jughead drops Ryan off with Betty Sunday evening, Ryan ducks underneath her arm, her hand pressed against the doorjamb. “Love you, Dad!” he calls, eager to watch the cartoon waiting on his DVR. 

“How was he?” Betty asks, neither friendly nor unfriendly. Her hair pulled up, a few loose strands at the base of her neck, a hint of sunburn on her ears. She wears jean shorts and a blue, button-up, sleeveless blouse. 

She doesn’t look any different. 

“Good.” He runs his tongue against his teeth. “Congratulations.”

Betty blinks, dropping her head and tracing the door sweep with the toe of her sandal. “We’re not telling people yet.”

“You might want to let Ryan know that.”

“You’re not people,” Betty says. “You’re family.”

It’s cool for June, the breeze raising goosebumps on Jughead’s arms. “How far along are you?”

“Eight weeks.”

“That’s early,” Jughead says. He clamps his mouth shut around any other inane statements and the questions he isn’t allowed to ask: was it an accident, does she want a son with Archie, are they getting married?

“We’re waiting until the second trimester to tell people.”

“It’s what we did with Ryan.”

The corner of Betty’s mouth lifts up, pressed into a half-smile. “My mom couldn’t believe she wasn’t the first person to know.”

“Did you tell her this time?” Jughead asks. 

Betty shakes her head. 

“Even if she wants to kill you, she loves her grandchildren too much to do anything to harm the daughter-shaped vessel carrying her newest one.”

Betty huffs out a laugh, smile a little wider. “I’m counting on it.”

Her happiness looks different now, here, up close. It looks good on her, a tender caress against her skin. It’s softer and easier to exist next to, and Jughead finds he can be happy for her despite the bittersweet taste coating the back of his throat.

Jughead turns the corner, basket hanging loose between his fingers. He has a mental list of what he needs, but it really isn’t as effective as a written one. Squinting down the aisle, he spots Betty, Archie and Ryan. 

Betty’s showing now, seemingly gained a watermelon stomach overnight. She has one hand on the shopping cart, holding her phone in the other. It’s possible she typed her grocery list, but Jughead remembers quick trips for alcohol and chips paused by supposedly pressing work emails. 

Archie grabs a can of something off the shelf, spinning it in his hand and reading the label. He says something, and Betty looks up to respond as he hands the can to Ryan. He mimics Archie’s earlier action, bringing the can close to his face, carefully reading (or pretending to read) every word before placing it into the cart. 

Jughead moves up the aisle cautiously. He likes to observe, to take in a scene and paint a picture in his head, file it away for future use: the mundane domesticity of sailing by cans of creamed corn and baked beans. Ryan climbs onto the back of the cart, arms behind him while he faces forward like the mast of a ship, navigating the never-changing set up of Riverdale’s lone grocery store. Betty pockets her phone and pushes the cart, Archie walking beside her. 

Jughead doesn’t run into them again until the snack aisle. 

Ryan excitedly points at various bags, saying, “I want those!” and “Wait, I love the wavy ones!” and then “No! Doritos!”

“You can pick one,” Betty says, a tiredness sagging her shoulders. 

“But you get lots of snacks, Mom.” Ryan pouts, bottom lip jutting out and eyes wide in a clear attempt at manipulation. 

“That’s because I’m the one buying them.”

“That’s not fair. You won’t give me my allowance.”

Betty sighs. “We’re working out the details.”

It’s a fight she’s having for him, Jughead realizes. 

When she was young, Betty’s father gave her a dollar in quarters to drop into her piggy bank (a ceramic, hand-painted pig, pink flowers and her cursive name along the flank). It’s a fond memory for her. She liked plopping her coins in the top and hearing the clunk, and she liked removing the rubber plug from the bottom, pouring her savings out and counting, putting some aside to purchase ice cream from Pop’s ice cream truck before it broke down. 

Jughead never had extra cash, and he definitely never received a weekly sum as a reward that didn’t even hinge on completing chores and the illusion of earning it. 

It would be easy for Betty to sneak a dollar to Ryan every week, a tradition hearkening back to an easy, nostalgic childhood she clings to despite herself. But she knows Jughead revolts against the idea. He wants better for his son than he had, but he still recoils at the thought of charity, of not preparing Ryan for a cruel world that could attempt to break him with no warning. Nobody is going to drop money into his hand like it’s nothing. 

Betty taking a stance makes Jughead think she might still have space in her life for him as more than a nuisance or glorified weekend babysitter. It makes him want to forgive her, really and truly forgive her, not just for himself, not just to win her back, but because the person he fell in love with (still loves) is in there somewhere. 

“You said that last week,” Ryan argues. 

“It’s still true. Pick out your chips or you won’t get any.”

“What?! That’s not fair!” He looks to Archie, pleading and indignant. 

“Sorry,” Archie says. “I’m with your mom on this one.”

Ryan glares, but he spins back to the shelves, unwilling to lose his snack. 

Betty shifts on her feet, pressing her palm against her back. Archie leans close, presumably saying something, asking if she’s okay. His hand replaces hers, rubbing small circles. Betty rests her weight against him, and Archie moves his arm around her waist as she leans her head against his shoulder.

Ryan stands on his tiptoes, stretching for a bag of Cheetos. He can’t reach, and places one foot on the bottom shelf. 

Archie lets Betty go to pick Ryan up, allowing him to grab the Cheetos himself. 

It’s a nice portrait of a family, wholesome, white picket fence, porch swings. 

It’s more Betty and less Jughead than he ever wanted to admit.

There’s no spottable, notable difference in Betty and Archie’s interactions. Jughead looks for a change, but it’s not there. His head still feels soft, like a newborn baby’s, and he either sleeps too much or not at all. 

The world has changed. Or maybe he changed. He died -- almost died -- and everything feels off-kilter. Worrying about Betty and Archie is a relic from Jughead’s past that he’s letting go, ashes blown into the sea as he struggles through the sand back to the dock. 

He and Betty have been through too much for unfounded jealousy to sink them. 

Betty scrolls through her phone late at night, and on the nights Jughead can’t sleep, mind flooded with images of blood glistening off a rock, shooting pain down his spine, darkness that envelopes his world, he notices. Rolling over, he asks, “Can’t sleep?”

She jumps, turning the dim light off. Her face is washed out as though he’s seeing her through gauze, eyes darting to his and away, hand splayed across her heart. “You scared me.”

“Sorry. You want tea?”

“No. Just checking if my English grade was updated.” Betty sets her phone facedown on her nightstand and readjusts her head on her pillow. 

Pushing up on his elbows, Jughead says, “There’s more to life than grades.”

“I know.” She slips her hand underneath her pillow. “Night.”

“Goodnight.” Jughead leans over, kissing her temple. “I’m gonna get some water.”

When he passes the window, curtains blowing in the spring breeze, Jughead catches the light from Archie’s room. 

In the bathroom, he maneuvers his head under the faucet. Jughead prefers the lukewarm tap water to the cold, filtered stuff from the fridge. The water runs down his chin as he gulps, and he doesn’t let his mind wander. Insomnia is a liar, and when he creaks Betty’s bedroom door open again, her face is slack with sleep. 

Jughead ignores the lack of light from Archie’s room and Betty’s phone peeking out from beneath her pillowcase.

Betty and Archie get married on a bitterly cold November day, and Jughead attends, two beers swishing around his stomach before he even takes his second row seat. 

The venue is rustic, fairy lights strung along the rafters and wooden columns, a table downstairs with a guestbook and a framed picture of Betty and Archie. It’s not an engagement shot. It’s not even from this year. Betty and Archie smile at the camera, Archie’s wide and bright, Betty’s smaller, a more private type of pleased, his arm slung around her shoulders, pink knit hat over her wavy hair. There’s snow in the background, on tree branches. They look young and innocent.

Jughead doesn’t sign the guestbook. 

He trudges upstairs, takes his seat and watches the ceremony unfold. 

Ryan grins, waving at Jughead when he reaches the front of the room before grabbing Archie’s hand, nervous to have so many eyes on him. Archie’s voice streams through the speakers as everyone stands for Betty to walk down the aisle. 

Veronica’s voice rings in Jughead’s ear: “Tell him about the song, Archie.”

A heavy rock forms in his stomach. He feels lightheaded, wiping sweaty palms on his dress pants. Jughead barely registers Betty gliding down the aisle on Kevin’s arm, drowning in the memory of her tear-stained face, wet pleas for forgiveness, fingers clutching at him almost painfully. 

It hurt. 

She said she had no excuse, no explanation, no reason. She had insisted that it wasn’t about him; it was about who he wasn’t. It was about Archie. Betty’s childhood crush rearing its ugly head as adulthood loomed before them, and Jughead never forgot it. He felt less than, always had, his insecurity festering, shrinking and growing and shrinking again, but never disappearing. 

Jughead gave Betty everything, chose her over and over, didn’t even consider there was a choice to be made. He loved her, and, in the end, he wasn’t enough. He never was. 

He sits down with the rest of the wedding guests, drifting in and out of the ceremony.

“You see the best in me even when I don’t,” Betty says, both hands in Archie’s. “You make me feel better after a bad day. I can’t wait to spend each day with you, the good ones and the bad ones. You’re my best friend. I love you.”

Tears collect in both their eyes, and Archie mouths that he loves her right back. 

Jughead was too afraid to ask in high school.

“It was a mistake,” Betty had said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt you. I love you.”

He could’ve asked if she loved Archie, too. If she felt anything at all. If it was really just fear of the future and childhood comfort. But he didn’t want to know, and he wouldn’t have trusted her answer regardless. She’d already lied. 

He loved her, and it was easier to blame himself. He needed to be better. He needed to spend more time with her, listen, compromise, improve his deficits and prove himself to her. He tried, and she tried, and they were happy. 

Betty and Archie say, “I do.” 

Jughead halfheartedly claps, chest tight, staring at the wall behind them.

Betty and Archie dance around the floor, her cheek brushing against his, his hands settled on her waist and hers around his neck as a storybook happiness radiates off them. There’s something familiar about it, a sense of déjà vu blanketing Jughead, unpleasant, and not just because he’s jealous. 

“Hey, Jones,” Toni says, pulling out the empty chair next to his. 

“How’re you?”

“Good.” She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’ve got a story in Japan next month.”

Jughead hums, watching Betty card her fingers through the hair at the nape of Archie’s neck. “How’s Cheryl?”

“She’s perfect.” The smile in Toni’s voice rings out like a finger tracing the curve of singing glass. “Dancing with Ryan.”

Following the tilt of her head to the left side of the dancefloor, Cheryl ducks underneath Ryan’s arm as he spins her around. The deep orange of her bridesmaid's dress reminds Jughead of the navy color she wore at his own wedding seven years ago. Cheryl’s smile dominates her face, and Ryan’s mouth mimics hers, too similar to be a coincidence. Ryan has Blossom blood. 

“Okay, so how are you, really?” Toni asks, eyebrow arched. 

“No bullshit?”

She blinks, face blank. 

Jughead sighs, scrapping a hand over his eyes. “It’s weird.”

“Watching your ex remarry would be.”

“It’s the normal stuff. The centerpieces Betty picked out the first time, the color palette, the cake we had.”

“It’s different,” Toni agrees. “But both weddings are beautiful. Cheryl looks killer in both bridesmaid’s dresses she talked herself into.”

“She does the work. Polly was happy to have help.”

“Cheryl wanted to do more this time, too, but Archie and Betty didn’t even want bridesmaids and groomsmen or anything.”

“Really?” Jughead locates them on the dancefloor, still in each other’s arms. They’ve pulled back enough to have a face-to-face conversation over the music. 

“Betty’s pregnant. It’s her second wedding.”

There was an old adage on the playground: first is the worst, second is the best. Jughead fears the guests are comparing the weddings. That Betty is comparing them. 

“She’s always loved a party,” Jughead says, a half-baked argument. 

“Cheryl threw a nice brunch last Sunday at Thistlehouse. And it’s not like Betty really skimped. They didn’t get married in a courthouse with no guests.”

Jughead’s eyes track the room: the open bar at the back, the orange, red and yellow centerpieces he’s seen in various stages of complete around both Betty’s and his father’s homes. He can still taste the second Pop’s burger if he focuses, a mixture of something almost elegant and something almost cheap, coated in a warmth that permeates Betty and Archie’s relationship. 

She didn’t avoid a traditional wedding despite it being her second. She downsized the guest list from 300 to 150, changed the month and the venue and the man in her arms. 

“This is her dream wedding,” he says, a quiet admittance of defeat. 

Toni bites at the corner of her mouth. 

“She’s happier now.”

Her response is sharp: “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That comparison, pity-party thing. It’s stupid.”

Jughead grabs his glass, shaking the ice around the melt before drinking the remains and crunching a cube between his teeth. The cold hurts. 

“I’m happy for her,” he says. 

Toni eyes him, wary and unconvinced. 

“It’s not the wedding. It’s when Betty stole my seat next to Archie on the bus back from our third grade field trip. It’s the camping weekend his dad took them on that I spent an entire afternoon hearing about. It’s how Betty would sneak him Scrabble tiles.” Jughead taps his fingers against the glass. “She cheated, and I knew, and I didn’t say anything.”

“Archie cheated at Scrabble?” Toni asks, impressed. 

“No. He wasn’t organized and never realized he had extra pieces.”

“Ah. That makes more sense.”

The song changes to an upbeat pop number, and Ryan joins Betty and Archie. He’s not a good dancer, waving his arms around offbeat, but the joy on his face is profound. At Jughead’s wedding, the only time his feet touched the dancefloor was for his and Betty’s first dance. He spent the remainder of the reception sneaking leftover hors d'oeuvres while thanking guests for coming. The majority were Betty’s friends and coworkers, and the mindless small talk was fairly brief between bites of ham and cheese puffs. 

“I know it blows,” Toni says. “But you have to move the fuck on.”

Ryan shakes with laughter as Archie does the Travolta.

“It’s not possible.”

“You don’t want to,” Toni counters. 

“You know me. I love being miserable.”

She scoffs. “You do.” 

“I know.”

He does. 

He’s been rolling the facts and feelings around his head from the moment Betty asked for a divorce, altering them with each new piece of information but never changing his reaction. Accepting isn’t the hard part, it’s whatever comes after that Jughead can’t figure out. 

“I still love her,” he whispers, shameful and sad. 

Toni squeezes his shoulder. “I know you do.” 

“I want her to be happy.”

Dropping her hand, a noncommittal hum escapes from the base of her throat. 

Betty twirls in her wedding dress, light catching the jeweled pins holding her hair from her face. Her cheeks are flushed pale pink, and she rests a hand over her swollen stomach. 

Archie kisses her temple. 

Holding up his glass, Jughead says, “I’m gonna get another.”

And if judgement writes itself around Toni’s eyes, he pretends not to notice.

Jughead, Betty, Kevin, Cheryl and Toni have already had a welcome home dinner for Archie when Ms. Andrews and her new wife throw a party to celebrate the end of his tour. 

Jughead doesn’t want to go. He and Archie had short, quarterly conversations while Archie was in the Navy, but they’re not close like they were. Seeing Betty and Archie together at dinner buzzed in Jughead’s blood, brain short-circuiting and sharp pain shooting through his chest. His heart, if he’s being dramatic. 

He replays all the things they admitted, and his imagination provides betrayals they never owned up to. Betty’s hands on Archie’s chest, Archie’s fingers in her hair, the two of them rolling over each other, gasping and groaning. 

A familiar nightmare. 

His entire freshman year at Iowa. 

Betty hires a babysitter, scribbles a reminder onto a sticky note, and places it on the fridge, stuck with a magnet for extra security. She buys a new dress, claiming it’s because her body hasn’t gone back to normal since Ryan, and Jughead tries to believe her. 

He and Betty separate at the party. She promises they can leave by nine. A compromise. Ideally, she’d be the last guest, helping scrape the serving dishes clean and placing the extra mixers back into the refrigerator. 

Jughead scours the crowd as he makes his way to the kitchen, an excuse to free himself from conversation with Reggie. 

He finds Archie twisting open a new jar of salsa and Betty on the same side of the island twirling her straw around her drink. 

“Jughead,” Betty says, spinning toward him, stepping back from Archie, and tugging at the sleeve of her dress. 

“What’re you guys doing?” he asks, more accusatory than he means. 

“Ran out of salsa,” Archie says, lid clattering against the counter. 

“That all?”

Betty flinches. 

“I promised Brooke I’d bring her more.” Archie pours the container into the empty dip bowl before offering it to Jughead. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Jughead shoves his hands into his front pockets. “I’m good.”

Shrugging, Archie dips a chip and pops the whole thing into his mouth. He takes the chips and salsa back toward the living room with a genial, innocent smile.

Betty stares at Jughead.

The faint melody of small talk fills the silence. 

All he can see is Betty and Archie in the garage.

He’s not sober when Betty asks him to dance. 

“Please?” Her eyes are wide like a Margaret Keane painting. Whatever makeup she had done starting to fade, the shadows of dark circles breaking through. 

Setting his half-empty rum and coke down, he follows her to the dancefloor. His palms hover over her waist before settling, and her arms sit heavy on his shoulders. 

“Thanks for coming,” she says.

“Ryan asked.”

Betty nods, pressing her mouth into a flat line. 

They sway in silence, his gaze flitting from her forehead to her ear to the blurry space behind her. A dull throbbing behind his temples and a faint nausea in his stomach almost distract him from how warm Betty is beneath his hands. She smells like crisp autumn air and brown sugar. 

“Thank you,” she repeats. 

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Her jaw clenches, and she exhales through her nose. “I want what’s best for you.”

Jughead meets her eyes, wet and woeful. “I love you,” he says.

Betty’s mouth ticks up, a sad, happy smile. A contradiction just as she’s always been. He used to believe he knew the true Betty, the private reality that occasionally leaked into the public persona. 

She’s always been both -- more than both. He miscalculated the importance of being The Girl Next Door. It stifled her, but she never fully shredded the archetype. She never wanted to cast it off; she wanted to fold it into something bigger, holding tight to the parts she liked and leaving the rest.

Betty returns: “I love you, too.”

A lightning bolt to the chest. It’s what Jughead has always wanted, but not like this. 

“Is this what it felt like?” he asks. “The last year?”

Her eyes drop, and she pulls back, fingers dancing with his shirt collar. He thought her pain would inspire vindication, but there’s only guilt. 

“Are you happy?” she asks, mouth barely parting as she forms the words. 

“I’m not unhappy.”

“That’s what it felt like. Except the not-unhappiness turned into frustration and anger and resentment until all I could think about when we were together was that I would hate you soon.”

Her fingertips skim along his neck unintentionally as her arms settle back in place over his shoulders. Jughead fights a shiver. 

“I loved you too much to let that happen,” Betty says. 

“I hated you,” he admits, quiet. “I wanted to.”

Her face doesn’t change, like she expected the confession. 

“Are you happy?” he asks.

Betty’s eyes track something behind him, a wide, brightening in them like the rising sun. She bites at the corner of her mouth to keep the feeling in. 

Jughead knows the answer.

“I am.”

For her, it was worth it. 

He wants to keep hating her. He wants to resent her. But it’s hard to hold onto, hands cramped and body weak, bones hollow and skin flimsy.

“You better be,” Jughead says.

He hates her compassionate eyes. He resents the empathetic curve of her mouth. 

He lets her go.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated! I'm constantly embarrassing myself on twitter: [saoirseegot](https://twitter.com/saoirseegot). Thanks for reading.


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